Earth Pressed Flat
by icor
Summary: The notes Balthier keeps from Rabanastre to Archadia, and his thoughts therein. [BalthierFran, cast]


**Virgo 12**

Our latest liberation was such a mixture of ill-timed fortune and unforeseen distractions (a none too pleasant trip to Nalbina's sty earning itself high ranking on this list) that I dare not say whether it went _well_ or not. Despite losing the magicite to the Thief (more on him later), Fran and I lined our pockets with spoils enough to spend a half-month in the Sandsea, all the alcohol that entailed included, and give the _Strahl_ the fresh coating of paint she sorely deserves. Wrested relics and raiments indeed!

But as jovial fortune does not favour our ilk, Fran and I were barely through half a bottle of Rosé (usually I would not deign drink so early in the day, but the landlord – Lomaj, or something painfully Dalmascan – had yet to prepare a room for us, and Fran has a certain fondness for the drink which I cannot comprehend) when a surprisingly well spoken Baanga accosted us. Not that I am suggesting Bangaa are wont to drawl on incoherently, mind you, but Ba'Gamnan does leave a sour taste in one's mouth.

He turned red with anger. Purple, actually, considering he was blue in the first place. And thus this intrepid adventure began, and supposedly I was to blame because I gave the Thief's girl a handkerchief in an attempt to rationalise her behaviour through the conventional means of confusion. Fran, naturally, was caught by association, and equally as reluctant to leave as I.

This Thief – he did tell me to stop calling him that; Vaan then – Vaan is a street rat, and fittingly had just crawled out of Rabanastre's needlessly complex sewer system. Archadia ought take a leaf out of the dead kingdom's book, and try hiding its filth _under_ the city. He landed the treasure and was gone before I could manumit it from his sun-scorched hands. Not that I didn't _try_, mind you. The boy is painfully simple, and cunning in such a way that he has yet to notice. Trips over his own sword a lot, and most likely would have lost a vital portion of his kneecap if not for those godawful knee guards that snap like teeth he sports.

But herein lies my point: the expression on his face when he first got a good look at Fran – not to say _all_ glances in Fran's general direction aren't satisfactory. Wide-eyed and dazed, almost. I will not lie – though I will never let the knowledge become known outside of these pages, and only the scrawl of my pen will give voice to these words – the boy reminded me of how I (rather, Ffamran) acted once-upon-a-time when they sky was still a dream.

The boy, like most of the orphans around Low Town, has a great notion of becoming a pirate. He looked suitably confused when Fran and I quipped at one another (pirates in a sewer, partnering with a Hume) and has been trying to hide his admiration for us ever since.

I write this sitting back in the pilot's chair, thoughtfully neglecting my duties as Fran controls the ship and pretends she isn't interested in what I'm scrawling. Successful though I may be in keeping my secrets, I keep blotting ink from folding close the pages around my hand whenever her eyes wander, and I have a terrible feeling of dread that Vaan is putting his hands where they ought not be on my airship.

I wince at the thought, and the poor Kingslayer (or simply plain 'Captain' now) raises an eyebrow at the oddity. The man is like a bird who has been kept in a cage, even though its wings are clipped; I made him dinner (soup, bread) and he threw it back up.

Well – Bhujerba awaits, and I have the desire to reach her ports with my skystones intact.

**Virgo 15**

The Emperor's fourth, and perhaps most offensively charming, son is an odd creature, fond of pseudonyms. I have no desire whatsoever to visit Lhusu and it's corrupted magicite again; especially if I have to deal with insufferable Ba'Gamnan for the umpteenth time. Things are becoming unnecessarily complicated (read: neither Fran nor I are sure what we are going to gain from ferrying this odd party around, and the _Strahl_ does not fuel herself) but watching Vaan run around Bhujerba's sun drenched streets may just have made up for all the aggro caused. He hammered a fist against his chest, all the while declaring he was a thirty... something – I'll ask Basch this later – Captain accused of high treason and two years dead. I believe his exact words were "I'm _the_ Basch fon Ronseburg!" I was quite taken by his jab against Ondore, I must admit.

Even the good Captain and Fran were forced to smile, and the ruckus he caused amused us at the expense of our Bhujerban _bhadra_.

Although I do suppose our visit to mystical, whimsical Bhujerba was not a waste; it is always pleasant to sit with my feet handing off the edge of the world with Fran.

**Virgo 21**

The _Leviathan_ is a magnificent ship whose beauty would only be enhanced were I not a prisoner aboard her. As ever my loyalties remain with the _Strahl_ and all the little hiccups and engine faults she bestows upon me. These problems are, gods thanked, reason enough for Fran to be around, and so it is little wonder that I still fly the _Strahl_ when a conventionally 'better' ship could be stolen with ease. I daresay Vaan would help me out, and Basch would stiffly turn a blind-eye.

But the topic at hand – Ghis is an seething, uninspiring bastard and I am only grateful that he either failed to recognise me or did not care enough to made a snide remark. I knew him by reputation mostly, and his rigid, painfully professional relationship with... ah, I digress. It is of little importance.

This I will say: the day on which our beloved hoverbike crashed into the waterway and left us teamed up with stubborn Amalia certainly did go very well indeed. That stone – the one Vaan is convinced I still covet – is poisoned, poison most foul, like the rocks around Lhusu.

Nethecite.

I want to kick myself and laugh all at once. I've run in a full circle, ended up where I began. I didn't catch much of what was said after that, and did not raise my voice on the subject. Predictably, neither did Fran, but she did place her hand over mine in the lightest of light touches before we unbolted each other's shackles. I believe that says something, if we're close enough to work our hands around one another's bindings without getting tangled in the process.

Most likely that we ought not get arrested so very often, but that is neither here nor there.

Oh, and our dear Amalia with spite in her eyes? The Princess of Dalmasca, two years dead by her own noble hands.

**Virgo 22**

A woman who would help me kidnap a Princess. Surely I am dreaming!

**Virgo 24**

There is sand in my shoes and stuck deep enough under my nails so that I can't bite it out (this does not bother me; it is a vulgar habit) and Fran's going to be shaking sand out of her hair for weeks. Vaan and his girl are running around the Sandsea as if they're playing in the shallows as we tread water with heavy legs, barely able to keep our gaping mouths above the surface. Damn Dalmascans and their deserts! It's as if they're walking on air, even as we camp out here in the confusing cold of the night.

As for the Princess: here was me thinking Fran was a difficult woman to deal with. But she has promised us riches – ah, already she knows my weakness oh so well! – and her presence, despite her formality (upbringing) and sharp tongue (she is not playful in the way she talks down to Vaan, like I), is not entirely intolerable. I am quite taken by her, and I put it to you that she would be quite pleasant, if it wasn't for the _other_ Captain's overwhelming presence. Vossler: aggressive in all things Pirate, myself and Fran included.

The Princess assures me, as if to guarantee safe passage home on the _Strahl_ – she was wise enough to bluntly compliment it, earlier – that we will reach Raithwall's Tomb shortly after sunrise, and our little dancer has Fran distracted with her thirst for the arts of magick. I suppose, then, there is little point in my being awake still. Basch valiantly stands guard, and Vossler will not sleep in the knowledge that there is a pirate within a mile of the Queen-to-be.

**Virgo 28**

I've seen the stone's power – the Dawn Shard, Nethecite, a curse in concrete form – and I still think the old man a despicable _fool_ to desire such a thing. My skin crawls to think of Zecht at Nabudis (if there is weight behind the rumours; the man is a ghost to me now, and better that way) yet the Princess keeps her grip tight on what she believes to be a sign of her heritage.

It burnt the air like oil, and Fran was sick on the Mist it expelled, blinded by black stars. I carried her from the ship while there was still time. Vossler was on his knees, with no one to carry him; I would bid he rest in peace, but I know it would shame him further. My heart had not beaten so fast in longer than I wish to recall. Vaan and his girl both tried to aid her – desperate to show off their slowly progressing cure magicks – and I remember snapping at them.

Busy with their own wounds, Basch and the Princess left me to tend to her in private; as I write this, arm twisted at an awkward angle so as not to wake her, she is sprawled across my lap, hair askew. Very uncharacteristic of her, and I am beginning to believe she will not wake at all.

My mood is foul, but not foul enough to disturb her; by the time she wakes, I hope we will have both recovered. There is talk of moving through Giza – I immediately catch myself questioning why I am leading still – and beyond in the morning.

**Virgo 29**

The Princess has ordained that we head through the muddy Giza, at Fran's suggestion. My mood has not lifted in the slightest, and I was bitter enough to prize the Princess's ring from her.

**Libra 01**

Argued with Fran as we trekked to Jahara. Something petty, in the way of planning a route: she suggested one path (and on reflection, the wisest way to head) while Basch and the Princess each held down a corner of our tattered map, and I took an immediate and irrational dislike to it. Vaan tried to interject once, but the others were wise enough to keep out of our business; which, of course, did not exempt them from watching us argue in the colourful way that only people who have known each for as long as freedom has existed can.

I relented, angrily, because I did not wish to make a show of myself, but the way I flung my arms in the air and sharply turned on my heels to be anywhere but _there_ made it quite clear that I was not happy with the decision at all. I buried my anger (and I blame those accursed stones for my sudden shift in temperament, lately) in skinning the corpse of a hyena who had the misfortune of coming our way. Not my favourite past time – another testament to my blind-anger – and the knife I was using was suitable for decoration at best. It got caught in the blood-clotted fur, and I was cursing all the known gods under my breath: and in this way, did not hear Fran approach me.

Shadow hanging over me, we were silent for a good minute or two as I tried to prize the fiend's pelt from it's twisted bones – but Fran knows men (_me_) too well, you see, and without a word handed me down her dagger. I snatched it – childishly – and she smiled, kneeling down next to me, hands rested against her knees. The hyena's pelt was cut away easier after that – due in part to me being calmer – and I dug the knife into its chest, snapped the ribcage apart, and let Fran take out the wind stone inside.

I wiped the blood from her fingers with a spare handkerchief, and we took the meat back to the campfire.

What a life we lead, so far from (what never was) home. Surely, surely, I am in love.

**Libra 07**

I will not dispute their beauty, but out of the three I certainly got the best deal. Jote, in particular, is especially stern, and habours such strong ill feelings for me that it made my throat close tighter than the spores in Golmore that seem intent on choking me. I mark myself a lucky man, but will not deny that I – yes, yes, the Leading Man – was perhaps a little worried that Fran would choose to remain with her sisters, in the embrace of the Wood.

But there is no room for fear (and yes, Wood, I _have_ stolen her from you) and she is braver than I. Family often is too much to give up, entwined with the "Green Word" and other such things I do not understand fully, and probably never will.

After, she smiled at me as if to reassure me of something (ah, surely she is catching on now) and (as usual) we did not need to say much, right then. I wrapped my palm around her knuckles this time, drew my sword with my free hand, and sunk it into a moss-laden Wyrm's back.

**Libra 09**

Fran tells us we're close to being out of Golmore, and I for one cannot wait to see the back of it. My soul for a bed, for blankets for the night; even to sleep cramped in the pilot's seat of my _Strahl_ while the hum of her engine disrupts me from my dreams. Hume was not built to sleep on ground where roots will not even let us have a smooth surface in the dirt; my back aches, my limbs are restless, and the muscles along my right shoulder have been pulled and as such my gun will not fire with any particular precision.

Vaan does all the complaining out loud, and the Princess chides him rather than me.

A night ago (or was it two?) under the pale hum of the crystal, Fran placed her hands on my shoulders and rubbed away the soreness. A godsend. Later, feeling better, lighter, I kissed her softly on the throat. She moved – not away, but lower – kissed me, and our shadows were thrown across the stony ground and wall of trees. Gods, I have missed this (and it is privacy I desire more than a bed, though I would not object to _both_), have been sleeping rough for too long. Boldly I kissed her on the neck again, rougher this time – she gasped, bit her lip, eased me away, brushed her lips against my forehead and cruelly left me to sleep.

Princess, Princess: be rid of your stones and save your country soon, I implore you.

**Libra 15**

Bur-Omisace's sights (islands floating, as if some angry god had stomped on the fragile earth and sent great shards flying) had proven to be far too distracting to write, and Paramina proved far too cold to bring pen to paper. All this political business – I fear we'll be ensnared by Archadia before I realise it. Gramis is dead, Larsa is distraught. Ashe still searches for some greater power, Basch is determined to prove his loyalty; neither talk about Vossler. I have no kind words for Al-Cid. Bergan is another fallen Judge (that makes four now, if I count correctly) and the name Gabranth lingers like a ghost.

On our journey through the Paramina rift, I kept myself entertained by joining in with the laments of the refugees Vaan insist we accompany through the snow. I recalled all the generals and particulars of my situation with an energetic sort of melancholy, and sticking close to my side, Fran would nod sympathetically during the key parts of my tale. She even touched my arm when I came to the part whereby my small country, so far west of Ordalia that it barely registered on a map, was sentenced to burn by Archadia's Judges on nothing more than a whim. The rest of our party listened on, none of them sure just how much I was making up.

Some parts (my wife and child, buried) were clearly lies in order to gain the bare-footed refugees trust, but when questioned Fran gave away nothing.

Half way up Mt. Bur-Omisace, hands on the railings and voice full of concern, she asked me if I thought the specs of land in the sky, like great stepping stones, would fall. Ears twitching, clearly disturbed by the idea, I stepped towards her, put my arms around her waist and said, "If they fall, then we will have more islands in this sea, and we will buy a summer house there, with its own aerodrome."

Leaning up to rest my chin on her shoulder, I saw her scowl down at me.

This is of little meaning: I had everything to record in better order inside my head, my phrasing much more eloquent, but things move too fast. I fear this is bigger than me, in the same way I fear the sky will one day fall down and crush me till there is naught but dust and glass shards left. We are staying with moogles at the moment (Fran has her sharp eye on them – if Nono is anything to go by, you can't turn your back on them for a second if you have anything worth half a gil on you) before the journey that will take days upon days – but not long enough – to reach the Capital.

"If you run from Archades and never look over your shoulder, Balthier, one day your legs will give way and you'll crawl back," Fran said to me but an hour ago, or words to that effect. I suppose what she's saying is – the Viera and their riddles aside – is to face up to what I will only ever talk about in the vaguest, most poetic terms, to be rid of it forever. This is me up against my Eruyt.

Let us be done with this quest and never return home. Even the Leading Man deserves to rest.

**Libra 19**

As we left the Phon Coast, its sands not as unforgiving as the Sandsea, I indulged the Princess in a monologue (which, as I expected, she interrupted with questions wrapped up in surprise and scattered reminiscent memories of her own) which came out disjointed, more like I was thinking aloud. Eynah. Venat. I couldn't even remember. So there she has it – people tell me I have a way with words (lies too; it's all part of being a pirate) and I hope my gift of the silver tongue will guide her when it comes to the subject of her fickle stones.

After, I took out three bottles of Madhu and declared that we would take the night off from politicking or fighting or both. Vaan was curious to as where I had obtained the bottles, but eager to get his share. When the Princess protested I said "All of us need to relax, Princess. We're quite safe in this Hunter's Camp," and glanced at her quickly as if there was some terrible secret between us. She relented, and so Basch followed in her example.

With the exception of eager Vaan, I would not say that any of us were outrageously drunk: Penelo was certainly getting there, so much so that she was not bothered by Vaan's raised voice or loud, enthusiastic gestures with his arms while he spoke too much. Fran complained at my choice (several years ago, there was an unfortunate incident involving Fran and six bottles of Madhu, but that is one of those things we do not discuss) but drank in small sips, and by the end of the night was content enough to fall asleep with her head rested loosely against my shoulder. Penelo made an odd _awww_-ing noise, like the time we came across two baby chocobos, and quickly covered her lopsided grin with her palm when I looked around at her. Lady Ashe drank to be polite, and it did her good; Basch drank with gratitude in every mouthful.

And now we are almost out of Tchita (my mouth still tastes faintly of the Bhujerban drink) and only Sochen separates us from the place which is Not Home. Vaan and his girl are not doing the best of jobs at masking their excitement for a country they claimed to despise. I wonder how they – the Captain, too – will react when they know I am Its Prodigal Son, fathered by the man close enough to the emperor (I am still not used to thinking of Vayne as such) to be causing them the bulk of their problems.

Bah. That man and his stones. I doubt I will write in here for a long time; I do not wish to stab through the pages when the violence of my mood gets the better of me.

**Libra 22**

I am no longer a man of my word – here I am, writing, sat in a dull cafe in the heart of Tsenoble. I have left the others (a sign my mood is foul), Fran included (proof I cannot be calmed) and have my head low, lest someone notice me. I will not give them the chance; I can almost taste the disappointment I'll feel if someone looks me straight in the eye and cannot recognise me for the life of them.

But I bring good news – Archadia has not changed. It is still a wretched place. I have no desire whatsoever to stay, and have never craved the sky more.

**Libra 26**

Some time ago – there is a point to this story, rest assured – Fran and I took our first trip to Balfonheim. The place is not as it is now (barely organised) and I had heard of it only in stories passed down by stern Archadians to scare their children away from piracy. I had avoided it entirely throughout my initial two years of freedom, for several reasons: firstly, the _Strahl_ was not operational for the first half year, and I spent much of those six months of my so-called escape on the outskirts of Archadia itself, trying to gather enough gil to pay for her repair. I was still playing with the word 'pirate' on the tip of my tongue then, and had not set out _become_ one, no matter how easily I later fell into the role. Thirdly, because I spent the afore mentioned half-year trying to strike up a deal with the Hunter's Camp's finest mechanic, and the series of faults on my part that led to our permanent partnership kept me distracted for the months to follow. And lastly – and it is still true today – I had little desire to be part of a so-called 'community' of pirates.

The point is that we have no allegiance, no loyalty (I will make an exception for Fran), and the idea of Balfonheim did not sit well with me. Nowadays, I do not mind it in passing. Nevertheless, we ended up there to rest, and stock up on whatever it was we needed at the time. A few months had passed since the _incident_ at Nabudis, and passage in the skies was at an all time difficulty.

Not half an hour passed before I came face to face with Zecht – _Reddas_ – and heart pounding and fighting against my chest as if to escape, I followed in example and made my way blindly through the crowded streets.

When Fran found me in the evening, somewhat drunk, I told her that Zecht was going to kill me, or worse still, drag me back to Archadia, to my father. Both, perhaps. Sitting by my side, she put one reassuring hand on my shoulder, but clearly did not understand.

"Ffamran," she said; everyone still knew me by this name at that time, "I will talk to him."

Before I could argue she vanished, and upon her return (I was definitely drunk by this point) she said "The Pirate Reddas says he does not know who you are."

I clenched my fists in anger, and she took the beer bottle from me so I could not smash it. In that instant I was _angry_ at him for thinking a name could erase the past, make him forget who he was and where he was from. Hours passed, Fran eventually dragged me back to a cheap inn and refused to crawl into the bed next to me (wisely, because I threw up more times than I care to count during the night) and when I woke up, I had had the strangest revelation: maybe Reddas really _wasn't_ Zecht. I don't know _how_ I dreamt it up, for I slept so lightly that I could almost hear Fran watching over me.

Nursing a hangover – I remember how much my eyes hurt to roll in my skull – I took to Balfonheim's streets in the hope of meeting this Reddas. I did, soon enough. A young pirate girl walked by his side, an impressive gun I'm sure she stole bundled in her arms, and he stopped rather deliberately to talk to me. He fancied himself some sort of leader for the mismatched pirates, and in his infinite hospitality he asked my name with a cutting smile.

"Balthier," I said, and the damn bastard laughed at me.

All this is just a long winded way of explaining my run in with Zecht's reflection today (and he still grins fiercely whenever he looks my way) and Cid, too. Pirate scum of the skies. Better than a neglectful, obsessive, narcissistic aging fool with a habit of talking to people who aren't there and had never been. Fran looked between us two, and I prayed bitterly to gods I know don't exist she would not comment that we looked alike in anyway; but quite simply, as she has explained to me now, she was drawing a line between us with her gaze.

"Blood bonds are useless," she said with a creeping smile.

Later that day, when we were in Balfonheim and everything in the way of plans was sorted – Giruvegan, is it? – Vaan, wide-eyes catching the pounding sun's reflection, caught up with us in the streets and talked on and on in that way that he is liable to do. The kind of speech that does not warrant an answer or a interruption, because he will keep talking whatever you do. Fran, for her part, dealt with the bulk of the conversation for once, but quickly he addressed us both, together.

"You two are pirates (envy), right?" he began in that way whereby he says things slowly in the hope you'll work out what he was asking before the words leave his mouth, "And Balfonheim is full of _other_ pirates (almost green now), so why don't you, you know, live here?"

He kicked a lose stone away with his toes, put his hands on the back of his head.

"I am in love with the sky."

I looked at Fran, and she, in turn, fixed her eyes on clouds so perfect they may as well have been white ink on a glass canvas.

"But wouldn't you like a home? I mean, it must get lonely, right, when there's not tonnes of different people around you."

"We have a home."

And to my surprise, it was Fran talking, that time. I raised an eyebrow, watched her carefully from the corner of my eye. Vaan was less subtle in his curiosity, and chose to assault here with questions, all beginning with the word _where_.

Fran echoed me. I am in love with the sky.

And now – I forget what was said exactly, because I was too busy looking at her – Vaan was thoughtful for a moment and came out with the right answer: so the _Strahl_ is like your home, right? Something like that. Of course, homes need not be fixed in one place, just always there to return to. Soon after, apparently satisfied, Vaan ran off to haggle the rest of our hard-earnt gil (he somehow has more of a talent at it than me, I reluctantly admit) with a jolly looking and – even for one of his kind – unusually fat Seeq. He shouted back to us that he was going to find Basch to show off whatever new sword he could claim for himself. As quickly as he was gone, Fran and I made our way back to the room that Reddas had so graciously offered to us in his Manse. On the way into the building, I made a point of smiling at him.

(Back to the previous conversation again – ) "What bonds should we tighten then?" I murmured, my words muffled by Fran's warm skin – I had my lips pressing kisses along her collar bone by this point.

She ran her fingers through my hair – and gods, you know I had been so _very_ patient, waiting for my Leading Lady – and said, "They are tight enough." I moved my mouth lower, and she changed her mind. "_We_ are close enough."

A pause, in talking a least. Gasps, moans. "Closer ties than blood?" Tongue on her stomach, now. Catching her breath, she repeated what I said, minus the question mark. Tongue lower still.

And now, to draw this tale that has lasted far too long to an end (I am running out of ink, and do not wish to leave the room to hunt out more at such an early hour and leave my book naked for all the world to see. The ink is too wet to close the pages; I have already smudged a great deal where my hand is cramped and shaking) I will leave all thoughts of Giruvegan, Doctors and stones between this leather binding, all thoughts of Kingdoms lost and Empires looming scrawled as an afterthought in the margin. We leave Balfonheim in the morning, and I intend to spend the rest of the night with Fran; it has cooled somewhat since we settled down for sleep, and I am no longer restless when I ought be exhausted.

I will burn this book in the morning. Until this entry, it has been nothing but of reminders of a life (home, family) I left behind long ago. The ashes I will bury with Ffamran, and, gods willing I – Balthier, just Balthier, the greatest sky pirate in all of Ivalice – will remain amongst the clouds with Fran.

I have run out of both ink and words to describe her.


End file.
